Storm Fortress.
The soldiers of the eastern and western camps had already fought to the point of exhaustion.
Corpses, all manner of shattered remains and severed limbs, lay piled like mountains. Blood sprayed across the ground had converged into streams and pooled into ponds; the earth ran red with blood, enough to float pestles. Whether loyal death-sworn warriors or ordinary soldiers swept up in the tide, all roared and hurled themselves at the enemy in a fight where either you died or I did. This was a great decisive battle without end until death. In the end, there would be no losers—only victors!
Only the victors could survive until the end.
Those who wished to live.
Had to press onward and kill every enemy before them!
The battlefield beneath Storm Fortress was like an incomparably vast mill of flesh and blood, devouring warriors' lives every second.
When Yue Yang led that band of star pirates and rebel troops, who had only with great difficulty cast off the forbidden power, to Storm Fortress, he could not help drawing a sharp breath at the horrific carnage here. The clash of millions upon millions of troops on both sides filled heaven and earth, the tides of battle crashing into one another. At every moment, people fell face-first to the ground, convulsing madly in agony as they died. There were also valiant generals who, even with their bellies split open and their intestines dragging several meters behind them, charged and slaughtered like crazed tigers, unstoppable in their momentum. Their eyes were crimson, as though beasts had possessed them, ready to choose someone to devour. Only when they collapsed from utter exhaustion, surrounded by enemies and struck by blades and swords from all sides, were they chopped into minced flesh.
Every conflict in the world